


I Must Have Been Athena

by shitiminvested



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shitiminvested/pseuds/shitiminvested
Summary: They say it must have taken one hell of a woman to survive through the Prewetts, the Marauders, the Weasleys, and the Golden Trio. This is the story of Minerva McGonagall, from birth till death.
Relationships: Isobel Ross McGonagall/Robert McGonagall Sr., Minerva McGonagall/Dougal McGregor, Minerva McGonagall/Elphinstone Urquart
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. aon

It was positively frigid in Scotland. It wasn’t quite cold enough to warrant snow, but as Robert McGonagall ran through the fields of Caithness to fetch the midwife, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. All he knew was that his pregnant wife was pacing a mile behind him, his first child well on its way.

Isobel McGonagall was peering out the window, panic seeping through her bones at every contraction. Rob had been so sweet when she went into labor, fussing at her and making her a cup of tea. Being every bit of the man she married. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him if this child was like her. Blessed with magic. It was a reflex at this point, to quickly glance under the bed to see if the locked box was still there. Still locked, keeping with it, the sanctity of her marriage. 

Her hand twitched in the bed’s direction, yearning to have the feel of magic flood through it again. And so Isobel hobbled to it, only just having crouched (which was quite the effort while in labor), when the door flew open, revealing a flustered Robert and a calmer midwife.

Isobel stood, feigning nonchalance. No doubt this occurrence would only strengthen the rumors of insanity that were surely flying around.

“Hello, Abigail. ‘Tis time, I suppose,” she says.

And so at 11:17 at night on October 4th, a girl was born.

“I wish for her to be named Minerva,” Isobel whispered in a postnatal haze, her head resting gently against her daughters.

Robert squeezed his wife’s hand. “Minerva?” he asks, his voice soft, “where is that from, darling?” 

“My grandmother,” Isobel says, her eyes wistful, “she was ever so intelligent. There is no doubt our daughter will be the same.”

There was a silence, the fire crackling softly in the back.

“If it is what you wish, my sweet. Hello, Minerva McGonagall,” he says, holding the child in his arms now. 

* * *

“Minerva?” the mayor chuckles, his grip around a brandy loose, “that’s a rather odd name, Rob.”

Robert chuckles slightly, his eyes lacking the same amusement.

“Isobel seemed adamant, and as I’m sure you know Charles, it does no good to argue to the wife,” he says to uproarious laughter.

“I suppose you’re right,” Charles chortles, moving on to tease the next man.

* * *

Robert sighed as he removed his coat, entering the small manse quietly. A small smile tugged at his lips as he entered the homely cottage, littered with sparse evidence of a young baby. Despite his meager salary, Isobel hadn’t failed to make the house a haven.

“Darling?” he calls out, padding into the living area. 

“In here, Rob,” she replies, her voice tight.

He follows her voice to their bedroom, which seemed to be the setting of a forceful storm. Dishes and clothes were piled everywhere, and his small wife was in the center of it all, her eyes red and tired. Minerva was sleeping on their bed, her hair billowing with each breath, a small hand curled around Rob’s bagpipes.

“Let’s head into the kitchen. We don’t want Minerva waking up,” Robert suggests, offering a hand to Isobel. She glanced at it, before taking it gingerly. They tread quietly to the kitchen, Isobel quickly busying herself with tea.

“Dear, are you alright?” he asks tentatively from his spot on a stool.

“Yes, Robert. You’ve asked many times, and my response has yet to change,” she says curtly.

“It’s been six months, Bella, yet you look like you haven’t slept in a year. I’ve given you your space, but I love you darling, and I can’t in good faith let you keep on living like this,” he says calmly, his hands clasped in front of him.

Isobel finally turns around holding two cups of tea. Robert takes his, before leading his wife to the nearest couch.

“Tell me Isobel,” he says, “tell me what plagues you.”

In hindsight, the months of pent up emotion should have suggested what was to happen, but Robert still started when his wife burst into tears, sobbing into her tea. The tinkling of breaking china is what kickstarted him, and he quickly brushed the broken glass out of her hands, and pulled her in.

“There, there,” he mutters, his eyes widening in panic, “what’s wrong?”

She retreats from his arms, savoring his warmth for what might be the last time. She slowly stood, shaking her head slightly as her husband rose to follow her. The bed seemed to taunt her, sandwiched between two symbols of the life she belonged to. And for the first time in three years, she unlocked the box beneath the bed.

* * *

“Minerva! Come here, darling. It looks as if a letter has arrived for you,” Isobel says, a warble apparent in her voice.

A now 11 year old Minerva comes scampering from her bedroom, her eyes bright with anticipation. 

“Is it here? Is it from Hogwarts, Mum?” she asks, her voice hushed. Of course, she didn’t need to ask, as the owl perched rather pompously on the windowsill provided all the answers that Minerva needed. Her hand trembled as she untied it from the owl’s claws. The Hogwarts seemed to glitter under the Scottish sun, even as Minerva carefully peeled it from the parchment.

Dear Ms. McGonagall, it read.

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find a list of all necessary books and equipment enclosed.

The term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by 31 July at the most.

Yours truly,

Albus Dumbledore   
Deputy Headmaster

Minerva wasn’t surprised when her mother burst into tears as the letter was passed around the table. Though their entire family now knew of Isobel’s nature, magic was still prohibited. And now that Minerva was off to school, she would be free to practice magic, while Isobel would remain constricted.

“I’m so proud of you, darling,” Isobel sniffs, pulling her oldest child into a hug. 

“Thanks, Mum,” Minerva says, glaring meanly at her pouting brothers.

“Why can’t we go, Mum?” Robert Jr, the youngest of her brothers, complains.

“Because you’re too young, Robbie,” Minerva says matter-of-a-factly, tapping him on the head with her letter, “you’ll go later.”

“But I want to go now,” says her other brother, Malcolm, sticking his tongue out at his older sister.

“I don’t care,” Minerva announces, “it’s my birthday and you have to be nice to me.”

“Happy birthday, Minerva,” Robert Sr. interrupts as he enters, blinking slightly at the owl swooping out the open window. “So it came then?” he asks eagerly, his eyes slightly strained.

Minerva practically beams, setting down her cup, ancient cracks etched into it. Shoving the letter in his face, and rolling on the balls of her feet, she narrates every detail of her morning to her amused father.

“I’m going to start packing now,” she grins.

“Well you’ve still got a whole year to go,” Malcolm mutters, as if determined to win at least one argument. 

“I don’t care,” Minerva repeats, skipping back to her shared bedroom.

* * *

And though, as Malcolm put it, there was still a whole year to go, September 1st came rather quickly.

Isobel had positively jumped at the chance to go to Diagon Alley, and their two-day trip had extended to a week, as Isobel’s euphoria at being around her people proved to be intoxicating. Minerva herself was enraptured by the magical alley, as she had never been able to see magic in such a large and free manner. Though beaten down with prior use, her textbooks were incredibly intriguing, so much so that Minerva’s parents hardly saw her without one of her books tucked under her arm. 

“Minerva,” Rob says, surprised as he enters the kitchen on August 30th, “whatever are you doing up so early?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Minerva admits sheepishly, stirring some sugar into the same cracked teacup. Since they didn’t have access to magical transport, they’d have to leave a couple days earlier.

Rob stares at the cup for a moment.

“You know, that’s the cup your mother broke when she told me she was a witch. She had to repair it with her wand before I believed her,” he says softly, lips tight.

Minerva gapes at him for a moment, before staring back at her cup. Neither of her parents spoke of that night, and Minerva, having been too young to remember it, had to assume what happened. All she knew was that her parents hadn’t been the same since. It was an odd topic to bring up.

“I suppose you’ll know how to do that soon,” he says, breaking her out of her thoughts.

“I’ll miss you,” Minerva says hesitantly. She and her father had always gotten along splendidly, mostly due to the fact that they were nearly identical in temperament. Neither of them were particularly emotional.

“I’ll miss you too, dear. Make me a cup as well?” he asks, retrieving the daily newspaper from the front steps. 

Shivering slightly at the gust of cool air, Minerva sets to making her father some tea.

* * *

“I don't get what the point of going all the way to London, only to come back to Scotland is,” Minerva grumbles. She had never been particularly fond of automobiles, and she felt rather nauseous the longer she was cooped inside of it.

“It’s just tradition, darling,” her mother says fondly, her eyes gleaming with previously unheld excitement, “just wait until you see the train. It’s gorgeous.” 

Isobel turns around fully. “Have you given any thought into which house you’d like to be sorted into, Minerva? I was a Hufflepuff, you know.”

Minerva frowns in thought. “I’d like to be in Hufflepuff, just to see your common room, but Ravenclaw sounds lovely. I hear their common room has an entire room with just books!”

“The Sorting Hat is never wrong,” Isobel assures, “so no matter where you end up, I’m sure it’ll be perfect for you.”

* * *

Minerva’s mother was right, of course. The train was beautiful. Though running straight through a brick wall had given both Minerva and Rob Sr. a near heart attack, once they had safely reached the other side, they both let out a gasp.

The entire platform was filled with an ethereal gold glow, due to light bouncing off both the scarlet exterior and the bronze trimmings of the carts. The excited chatter of everyone around them seemed to cocoon the McGonagall family, who were all stunned into silence by the sheer magic surrounding them. 

Minerva led them all to an empty carriage, loading all of her stuff in before hurrying back out to her family. They all stared at each other for a moment, seeming to only now understand what was to happen. It was already 10:50, so it wasn’t as if they had much time.

Their goodbyes were comically different. With Isobel, there were many tears shed. With Robert, there were little tears, but more meaningful hugs. And with her brothers, there were distrustful looks and begrudging hugs (“I’ll miss you I guess,” is what Robert had said). But eventually, the doors of the train were being slammed shut, and Minerva had to hurry back onto the train so she wasn’t left behind. 

The whistle of the train as it departed and the slice of the empty compartment door as it shut seemed to echo in Minerva’s ears for another ten minutes.


	2. dhà

Minerva hadn’t ever been exposed to the luxurious side of life, with her father being a minister in the outskirts of a small town. Thus, even the slightly scuffled seats inside the train looked positively opulent.

Now that she was alone, she found herself adrift. She’d never been allowed to have many friends, as secrecy was a dearly held value in the McGonagall household. As far as Mum was concerned, she was much too young to be trusted to keep her mouth shut, so her younger brothers were pretty much the limits of her social escapades. But the moment Daia Llewellyn blustered into her carriage, with eyes wide and her unruly hair gleaming with sweat, she figured that might be about to change.

Minerva eyed her skeptically, noticing the chiseled outline of the robes of someone with money, and subconsciously rubbed at her own fraying robes.

“Oh, hullo,” the girl said rather comically, “mind if I hide in here for a bit?”

Minerva paused warily, before nodding mutedly.

“Daia,” she said suddenly, as if it had just occurred to her to introduce herself, “the name’s Daia Llewellyn.”

She stuck her hand out with utmost confidence.

“Minerva McGonagall,” Minerva replies, taking her hand firmly.

“You a first year too, Vera?” she asks, her eyes darting around as if she couldn’t bear to stay still.

“It’s Minerva,” Minerva says irritably, “and yes.”

She paused for a moment, and figured that she might as well try to be friendly.

“Any idea what house you’re going to be in then?”

Daia practically beams, turning so quickly Minerva’s was surprised she didn't have whiplash.

“Gryffindor,” she announces, brandishing her wand awkwardly, “I’d probably be disowned if I wasn’t,” she admits sheepishly.

Minerva snorts rather rudely, which only seems to delight Daia more.

“Is that why you’re running?” Minerva asks scathingly, humor lining her words.

Daia feigns a wounded expression, “Vera!” she cries dramatically, miming herself being stabbed in the chest, “Those betray’d do feel the treason sharply!”

She collapsed onto the seat.

“Shakespeare?” Minerva asks incredulously, leaning forward, “you know Shakespeare?”

Even Minerva hadn't been able to make sense of the plays in her father's study.

Daia had the decency to look sheepish. “What being the oldest child of a blood-traitor pureblood family gets you, I figure,” she sniggers, before turning rather serious, “but don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to keep up.”

Minerva snorts again, deciding that she rather likes the girl.

“Don’t think you have to worry about appearing intelligent," Minerva lies, "and what are you running from, anyways?"

“Why, Vera,” Daia gasps, “jealous that I might be hiding from my adoring suitors?”

Minerva only has to shoot her a quick scathing look before the other girl secedes.

“My brother, if you must know,” she grumbles, “he’s a right arse.”

Minerva tries not to flinch at her vulgar language, knowing full well Daia would ridicule her senseless because of it. It felt rather odd knowing someone this well after a 5 minute conversation.

“Well, you might as well stay, since you’ve already got the carriage stinking,” Minerva relents with a long-suffering sigh. Neither of them are fooled, of course.

* * *

Mum had never really talked about Hogwarts. When she did, she spoke fondly, but never divulged any details. Minerva had always suspected it had something to do with her father. Regardless, this lack of prior knowledge had her gasping alongside the Muggleborns as the boats sailed through the ivy curtain. Hogwarts was brilliant, and Minerva knew that by the time she left the castle for the final time, she’d have inspected every crevice and alcove the school hid.

And as they all stumbled up the stone stairs of the castle, their gasping and cooing didn’t cease as they saw a hoard of ghosts performing some intricate dance for them. An older man of around 50 was standing at the foot of a grand staircase, smiling pleasantly at Minerva and the rest of the children around her as they crowded around him nervously.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” he says warmly, leading them into a chamber to the side, “Shortly, I’ll escort you to the Great Hall, where you will warm up and fill yourselves up with our food. Before that, as I’m sure you know, you will be sorted.”

His eyes seemed to twinkle in the moonlight.

“There are four houses at Hogwarts. Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Slytherin. You’ll be sorted into one based on who you are as a person, and what you value. Each house has an incredible history, and all of them have produced great magicians, so don’t fret too long about it. Your house will be like your family while you’re here. You’ll sleep in the same dormitory, share a common room, and have classes with them,” he says, “now I must inform you that each one of you plays a role in the success of your house. If you do something of merit, you will be awarded house points. Rulebreaking will lose them. At the end of the year, the house with the most points wins the House Cup. I have no doubt all of you will be a credit to whichever house you are sorted into.”

“Now, shall we go?” he claps, before pausing, “Oh! My name is Professor Dumbledore, and I’ll be your Transfiguration teacher. Alright, into a line and move along then!” he says merrily, leading them through the large double doors.

Minerva stares widely at Daia, who looks equally as stunned at the onslaught of information. She gets in front of Minerva, shrugging back mutely. They file through the doors, staring silently around them. The Great Hall was ethereal, floating candles glistening off of the clear moonshine that filled the hall. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky above, so the stars twinkled merrily down at them. They had reached the front of the hall, and Minerva stared when Professor Dumbledore placed a patchy old hat on a stool. And as if this wasn’t odd enough, the hat sang.

After that rather odd ordeal, Professor Dumbledore conjured a piece of parchment. As if sensing their confusion, he turns to them.

“When I call your name out, please come here and put the hat on. It will sort you into your house.”

Minerva had never felt more confused in her life, and she had to consciously stop herself from moving forward and examining the hat. The first one of them was called up, (“Ardlore, Roger!”), and the poor bloke practically shook the entire way there. He cautiously put the hat on, jumping visibly. The Hall was silent for a few seconds, before the hat opened at its brim and shouted, “SLYTHERIN!”

One of the tables exploded in cheers, with the others clapping, but much more subdued. Ardlore stumbled towards the table, shakily sitting down. The rest of the ceremony passed rather quickly now that the novelty had worn off, but Minerva still tensed when Daia was called up. She strode forward, plopping the hat on with a smile on her face. Her smile dropped slightly the longer she sat there, but after about 30 seconds, Daia was sorted into Gryffindor.

“McGonagall, Minerva!” Dumbledore calls. Minerva breathes in, before walking forward, doing her best to keep her chin up. She sits down on the stool, the cool wood pressing into her thighs. Then, her vision is obscured.

 _Ahhh,_ a voice says in her head. Minerva has to stop herself from startling, but her eyes narrow.

 _What are you?_ Minerva demands, not particularly enjoying the idea of even an inanimate object poking around inside her brain.

 _You’ve got a bit of everything in you, don’t you? A certain thirst to prove yourself, yes, but I wonder if that’s because of ambition… or something else entirely?_ The hat seems to muse, ignoring Minerva’s occasional objections.

 _No, not Hufflepuff, certainly._ Minerva felt a rising panic at this. Mum would be heartbroken.

 _What’s that?_ The hat asks. _That’s interesting… Gryffindor would suit you well, then. Ahh, but Ravenclaw would do just as well. You have a quick wit, and an even sharper mind… So down to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw it comes. What do you think?_

Minerva pauses, surprised to be asked. Daia’s in Gryffindor, and it certainly would help to know someone. But Ravenclaw would help her learn a lot. She wouldn’t be surprised if they had their own library. And they certainly wouldn’t judge her for being poor. Gryffindor sounds exciting though-

 _Yes, this is quite the conundrum. You could fit in either one perfectly fine, and I have no doubt you’d thrive wherever._ The hat is cut off by a sudden furious whispering sweeping across the Hall. Minerva eyes them warily.

 _You’re a hatstall, child. It’s rare. Pay no mind to it,_ the hat says. _I suppose what matters now is where you’d like to be._

Minerva catches Daia’s eye, who looks intrigued and winks at her from the Gryffindor table once she catches her eye.

 _Well then,_ the Hat says. “GRYFFINDOR!” it announces at last, and the tension in the room breaks, and Minerva quickly scuttles down to sit next to Daia. She’ll have to do some research on hatstalls later.

“Bloody hell, Vera,” Daia snickers, as the first years are led to their common room, “what took you so long? Everyone was whispering and stuff.”

“Is it really that weird?” Minerva asks, frowning.

Daia nods vigorously.

“Yeah. Hatstalls are super rare. You have to be on the stool for like _5 minutes_ to be one,” she says, “what was the hold up, anyways?”

“It couldn’t choose between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw,” Minerva says, “so I got to choose. I guess I chose Gryffindor because… no reason actually,” she says hastily.

Daia beams, clearly catching onto the implication.

“Aww, did Vera choose Gryffindor because of me?” she shrieks, throwing an arm around her shoulder.

Minerva shoves it off, rolling her eyes.

“Get off of me, you big oaf,” Minerva complains, fighting a grin, “and I certainly did not.”

“You’re right,” Dai says solemnly, “best not let my admirers find out. They’d be furious.”

 _Thankfully_ , they’re cut off by the prefect stopping at the common room, acquainting them with the dorms.

“Now it’s a Sunday today, which means you’ll be starting classes tomorrow,” the male prefect says.

“Charles is, shockingly, right. Classes start at 9 am, so I’d recommend leaving for breakfast around 7. That way, you have enough time to find your classes. You’ll get your schedules at breakfast,” the female prefect adds on.

Charles grins mischievously, “Now it’s a bit of a Gryffindor tradition to not lead you down to the Great Hall for the first week, isn’t it Rowan? So you can prove your bravery and what not. Have fun with that!”

Rowan rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “He’s not messing with you,” she informs them.

There is collective unease at this, rippling through the youngest Gryffindors.

Of course, Daia proves to be the anomaly.

“Wicked,” she grins.

* * *

The dormitories were more comfortable than Minerva had expected, and the four other girls rooming with her were nice enough. Samantha Rockelier and Ariana Sweetwater seemed to connect instantly, clambering into each other’s beds, giggling and whispering late into the night. Nyala Abebe watched all of them silently, fiddling with her braids as she assessed them. Daia went to sleep immediately, flopping onto her bed with her robes still on.

Minerva couldn’t find it in herself to go to sleep, so she quietly unpacked all of her belongings, trying to calm her racing mind. Nyala was still staring at her, so after she had finished organizing her wardrobe, Minerva stared back.

“Hello,” Minerva says cautiously.

“Hello,” Nyala says back, her gaze unrelenting.

“Do you need something?” Minerva asks, getting quite uncomfortable.

“No,” she says.

“Alright then,” Minerva says, hurrying into her bed and drawing the curtains. Better force herself to sleep than be stared at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On this episode of, "The Author knows herself too well," we have me updating this bloody story a whole month after I posted the last chapter. Hurrah? Shit chapter, too. To be quite honest, I'm trying to figure out how to write a biography without boring you lot to death. I'll start updating more once I figure that out. Well, see you next month or year or whenever.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, you lot! This is my first fanfiction on ao3, so don't be too rude. I'm not quite sure how often I'm going to be updating, because if I set myself to a strict schedule I'll lose motivation. But it should be often enough, I hope. That's all I have for today, but I hope you enjoyed! Like, comment, and subscribe, or whatever the hell the ao3 equivalent is lol


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